


Show, Don't Tell

by erimeri (blujoonie)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Artist! Simon, Fluff, M/M, Painting, Post-Book 1: Carry On, Pre-Book 2: Wayward Son, aaand that's it, and too short for my taste, angst if you squint, literally all it is is simon painting on baz, literally tooth-rotting fluff, very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23265340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blujoonie/pseuds/erimeri
Summary: But his skin is one of the things I’ve always wanted to mark, one way or another. With a punch, scratch, bruise, kiss, or a bite. One way or another, I’ve always wanted to say he’s mine.But he’s mine right now. So I’ll take all I’ll get.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 16
Kudos: 80





	Show, Don't Tell

**SIMON**

My therapist says art is a form of expression. She says it can make you feel free, Baz agrees. He says it cathartic. I have no idea what that means.

I guess that's why I ask Baz if I can paint on him.

“Baz.” 

He croons a soft noise. Right now, Baz and I are laying down on our bed, his head on my lap while I play with his hair. 

I trace my fingers down his scalp to his lips and his nose. His lips are pale like the rest of his body, and his nose is crooked and a little too high up his face. I love it.

“Simon?”

“Hm?” 

“What is it?”

“Can I paint on you?”

Baz’s eyes shoot open, “can you what?’

“I wanna paint on you.”

Before he has the chance to say anything, I move off the bed, dropping Baz’s head on the mattress. As I leave the room, I hear Baz’s pained groans, “Snow, why’d you do that?”

I run to the living room. It’s cluttered with paints and brushes, I reach towards my backpack and grab some newer paints and my favourite brush. (Baz bought it for me. I think it’s really nice. It’s thin and the handle is matt black.)

I all but skip back to our room, jumping onto the bed, right beside Baz. I dump all the supplies beside me.

“Up,” I tell Baz. He complies.

His hair is all mussed up, and the circles under his eyes are so, so dark and give a stark contrast to his pale skin. 

He’s beautiful.

I gesture towards his shirt, “off.”

He raises his eyebrows (those damned eyebrows), “Has your vocabulary managed to get even smaller, Snow?”

I grunt and slide my hands onto his waist, pulling on the hem of his shirt. He laughs and lifts his hands up. I love his laugh. It’s my favourite song.

I pull his shirt off and press a kiss to his neck. Baz’s skin is so, so soft. It’s pale, and grey, and sometimes I get scared because he’s so sickly. It reminds me of when he came back late in 7th year.

But his skin is one of the things I’ve always wanted to mark, one way or another. With a punch, scratch, bruise, kiss, or a bite. One way or another, I’ve always wanted to say he’s mine.

But he’s mine right now. So I’ll take all I’ll get.

His gaze wanders down to my lips, I wonder how one look can set my body ablaze.

My right hand moves from his waist to his jaw and my left hand rubs circles into his stomach with my thumb. I know he likes that.

He hums softly and I grin, “ready?”

“If you really wanted to mark up my body, you could’ve asked.”

I pinch his arm and laugh when he yelps. I reach towards the paint.

“Lay on your stomach.”

“Whatever you say, love.”

I start with white and use my fingers to paint it onto his back. I don’t have any plans on what to paint, but I’ll figure it out.

Baz hisses when the cold paint hits his back, “why do you want to paint on _me_. You just bought five new canvases.”

I place a finger on his lips when he tilts his head up. He places a gentle kiss on that finger and lays his head back down on the bed.

My hands move swiftly between wiping paint off of my fingers on my jumper and painting on Baz’s back, placing soft kisses on his hipbone for the sole purpose of hearing him hum. 

It’s beautiful.

I started to paint sunflowers on his back, and then progressed to drawing stars within minutes. My attention span is too small to focus on one thing and one thing only. (with the exception of Baz, obviously. I could look at him for days on end, hearing him talk about anything and everything. It’s lovely.)

The sunflowers fade into stars which fade into a cluster of messily drawn hearts. I take my thumbs and squeeze the pink paint onto them, pressing on after the other on Baz’s skin. Then I take the red paint and squeeze it onto my pinky finger to shade the hearts.

I wipe my fingers on my jumper (again) and place one hand on Baz’s waist. 

“Done?”

“No.” I lie. It’s around noon and the gold light from the sun hits Baz’s skin wonderfully. 

I don’t want him to know I love him that much. He’d run away, obviously. Having someone stare at you for hours isn’t the most romantic thing.

“I know you are. You haven’t reached for the paint for a while now.” He makes a move to stand up, his back cracking in the process.

“You’re so old.”

“We’re literally the same age.”

I shrug even though he can’t see me. 

“Can I see?” he asks. I’m tempted to say no. But my therapist says that I shouldn’t run away from my problems (or potential problems), so, despite myself, I say yes.

He walks to the bathroom with a little pep in his step. It’s cute.

His lips part in awe, such a small action yet it speaks so many levels. Living with Baz practically my whole life has given me a key into his lingo. So when he breathes out a sigh and turns around with a soft blushing coating his cheeks, I know he means it when he says:

“It’s beautiful. I love it.”

**BAZ**

“It’s beautiful. I love it.”

He’s beautiful. I love him.

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> My [Tumblr](https://eriimeri.tumblr.com/)


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